Best Dislocation Poems
REMEMBER JACOB
what is normal?
i’m back to it
with my back
to the negativity
a smile securely
in place, in place of
the fog that was raging,
raging strong…
fighting me (how
do you fight an entity -
you cannot see).
i pray, i pray
through day and night
night and day.
remember Jacob
wrestled
even with God -
he wanted a blessing.
a blessing i’ll take
but the enemy i leave
behind.
the enemy is often lurking
in my mind, propelled
by memories
that are touched upon
or by things
i shouldn’t see or hear.
we live in a fallen world
a world of turbulence.
even i, have trouble sorting it out.
i sure feel for those who are caught
in an unholy squeeze. sneeze
it out…bring it to your knees…
shout it out
with every ounce of grateful
thing you can think about.
turnabout is fair play -
play unfair with unholiness
cling to godliness. even if
we suffer dislocation, like Jacob,
our disorientation all gone -
the sun with its warmth
of healing touch.
3/27/2023
Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak…”Your name will no longer be Jacob. It will be Israel because you have struggled with God and with men and have prevailed.”… The sun shone on him (Jacob) as he passed by Penuel — limping because of his hip. (From Genesis 32:24-30)
Quietly now,
my serenading sky
you to me are!
almost radiant and high, facing the light
be about your plants of green
your strewn paths and needles
let rays tend the weeds that harbour gainst your hand
and trowel deep each foot that steps
they live as do I
mountains waiting ire
I watch and yearn the uprooting
the dislocation, the cast away,
each fibre stretched against the cotton
and the curl of sweat
separates...
Ventures a rivulet down your back,
you are the mystery my love
Knelt neath the shading of time
bowed, from the unforgiving branch,
how do I see you so
a dance
to the music in my heart
a dance
that wealds the tilling grasp,
the pain I feel , is white peaks screaming
curling to kiss the clouds
each bead pours from your diamonds stream
and settles on the rock
catching sunlight on your nape,
a nape I've kissed a thousand times
I live a'neath the bowing branch,
allowed my wallow time
in shadows looking down
timeless tunes a humming
little inconsequential notions
swept back, brushed away
a remembered time when ledges cowered,
in rockbeds so dry of love
like strangled flowers
that grow untended, like lies
reflecting summer sunsets under the
mountains of your
unforgiving eyes...
I
I am with Liberty
At least I was
Until 2019, before the Virus
Now as in puerile freedoms
(Just words, not many will sacrifice for;
Most people go along, as with Trump in USA)
So, I was with Liberty University
In Virginia, the world's largest Christian university
When Jerry Jr. supported the Donald, I left the country
"Leave of absence," I said
Now how many atheists support Donald Trump?
II
Mandela of South Africa might have rotted in prison
Yet 27 years later he emerged, with more passion
For freedom than those who were "born free," taught "Reason,"
How do we explain this Freedom's mystery?
Men - and women - under the boot of racism
Emerge with a greater testimony of Freedom
Than the Teachers, the advocates, the age-old Practitioner?
Gandhi, too, born under British colonialism
Not only imparted freedom in South Africa, but in his own nation
Then a dose of Christian moral conviction:
"I'll be a Christian if the West practices Jesus' famed Sermon"
III
Hey, I was a communist and atheist by persuasion
Because as a child I knew no fairness, no freedom
Then how this Christian conversion?
Now I come to my theme, topic, and Question:
There is a Spirit, we call it Spirit of The Original QUESTION:
Yes, God is the Original Question, Miss & Mr. Reason!
As He seems to ask the rhetorical question:
When a non-life form, Corona Virus, can quiet our planes & "System"
When every Tom, Dick, & Maggie are in prayer now
What are the atheists saying, what are they doing?
Maybe some good atheist will help us Predict the next dislocation?
I pray to gain great so the pains will leave my lane, drain
I seek light, that is brightness so I will leave the night darkness
I pray for protection so my days on Earth will not be put into dislocation
because we are all humans and that we need protection in different occasion
Oh Lord, you are the father of all us
The beginning and the end
The Lord of Lord
And the king of king
When we call upon your name you make wonders;
Wonders that can't be counted different times, numbers
May your name be glorified
Forgive us our sin
because we have sin against you in distinct ways
Father I come to you as your child
Because we are your children and that you never failed your children
Lord I seek wisdom, knowledge and understanding;
Understanding that it is not easliy explainable
We are learners, I am learner
We all have different way to go
Lord, be our guardian
Lead us to the right path
So that we will not loose ourselves in different part
It is said there will be strategy
Make our own into good one, comedy
Non for the tragedy.
I was taken from this life
in the black night, blindfolded
to be clubbed to death
so that I
might be born again
in spirit song, dance and name
given by my great ancestor
who, ten thousand years ago or more,
crossed the Bering land bridge from
Siberia to Cowichan and the Salish Sea
warm land of the raven,
the black bear and the salmon.
I have suffered
four hundred years
of dislocation of the soul
in this barren culture, nameless
but for “primitive squaw.”
I have lost
Tamanawas, the sacred ritual dance
the Potlatch feast of giving and
my children and my language.
I will endure
four days and nights
confined and cold and hungry
while all around the rhythmic pulse
of elders’ drumming, chanting
guides me back in time and space
to voices still resounding
stories of a dancing flame
light upon the earth
And I will rise in cedar forests
and walk the clamshell middens
feel our language on my skin
and see with startled eyes new life
the Soulfire I’ve been given.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was for the Shaman's Way contest but I think I missed it.
Cowichan --used to be pronounced coWEEchan now it's usually said like, Cow i chan.
The Canadian government outlawed many Coast Salish practices until the 1960's--the Spirit Quest, Potlatch feast and
Tamanwas dance among them. Children were placed in residential schools, away from their families, and were forbidden
to speak their mother tongue. More recently, the spirit quest ritual has been revived as (loosely) described in the
poem. However, it is also now used as a form of "intervention" to help address an array of problems frequently
attributed to colonization (e.g., drug and alcohol misuse). So, where in the past, young people would go off into the
forest voluntarily, it is now often the case, (at least in Cowichan) that young people are taken from their beds in the
night. Initiates are first symbolically "clubbed to death" then "reborn" after multiple days of ritual practices.
Unquotable quotes – XIII
Follow love for it’s free, free love and it’ll flee.
Do unto others as you would have them undress you.
Easy come, eenie meenie mini go.
Practice makes sex a maniac.
God helps those who help ten elves.
Never kiss a gift horse in the mouth.
People who live in glass houses should not throw boomerangs.
Two heads are no better than none.
Actions speak louder than burps.
A watched pot suffers from boils.
You can’t make a cutlet without breaking legs.
Hang on the hand that feeds you.
All good things must come to a fiend.
If you can’t beat ‘em, grind ‘em.
If it ain’t broke, don’t make it work.
Dislocation is the greater part of valour.
There’s no place like eohm.
A picture is worth a thousand broads.
Better late than dump her.
The pen is mightier than the sword for those who’re
illiterate.
One man’s trash is another man’s pleasure.
Beauty is in the dye of the painter.
Myopia is the mother of the optician.
Familiarity breeds when people camp unkempt.
Good things come to those who know how to put on weight.
A drain is only as long as the longest drink.
Absence makes the heart go ablunder.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him blink.
In teaching others we teach ourselves to teach others.
If you want something done Right, don’t look to the Left.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
The big 'R', do you actually know what you're doing
To our week nation,
Absolute panic stations, feckin banter deflation, endless duration
Eternal damnation the foundation, our country's creation.
No shortage of hydration in any location,
Sure isn't Patsy livid, the crops are bad, explicit gyrations.
Sure no wonder there's emigration by the dozen every week,
Has given or society an ugly mutation,
Gets lubrication each day thanks to you.
There's a sad wet dog in the station
Contemplating rotation.
You rain on our frustration, wash our sins for we have
Offended out of hatred and vexation,
All we're looking for is some compensation.
Rosary beads in homes nationwide and Bridie is saying the rosary
For a chance of salvation, god love her she's my relation.
The forecast gives us the temptation to believe,
Subtle touch of authority has us buying flip-flops, frustration.
We have brain cells you know, we give into temptation,
Because in this situation we can find our own destination.
Just sayin aviation is our saving grace from drowning captivation,
And there's as much chance getting compensation
from you as we are from a cheap flight cancellation.
Rain we've had enough, because we're ready to make a revelation
And through your bitter tears you'll hear our declaration.
We're out for palpitation then leave you to your desperation,
Because as a population, it's our dedication, inspiration and vegetation
That are emanating through your drops of dislocation.
Hopes and prayers soar in aspiration
In this season of heightened anticipation
When diverse cultures in our great nation
Await their holidays with eager expectation
Channukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa -- in ideation
All Festivals of Light, their candles lit with jubilation
In awareness of their symbolic inspiration
Fervent flames proclaiming messages of liberation
Midst the darkness of December's nocturnal hibernation
And from its accomanying spiritual malaise and dislocation --
Blazing a path to renew mankind's powers of imagination
Rekindling our sense of wonder at God's purposeful Creation
Alcohol coats over her synapses,
slipping easily through all the cracks in her mentality.
She dulls like steel against his memory –
she contracts into herself and curls
in a fetal position,
and she sees nothing.
She hears nothing.
She feels nothing.
These Vodka-stained walls keep pumping,
force-feeding clots into her belly while she writhes,
her fists pressing knuckle-mark-purples from the inside,
spewing blood from unwilling nostrils and gasping
for air
and gasping
for air.
I don’t
want to live like this
anymore.
and gasping
for air.
She’s a complete anomaly,
covering her face with her fingers to keep them away,
selfish-back-to-those-putrid-yellow-lights on the sidewalk
and her hair all torn-tatters of silk against her.
Her veins are rooting through skin into her footprints.
Her face is dripping vomit on the cement and
dislocation on the sky,
and her wounds are only drying her out more
while she smolders.
She’s turning to cinder, and oh god
why can’t he come get her.
She’s waiting and
she’s burning
up.
She’s burning.
She’s a ribbons-in-mud-puddles person,
a chronic rebirth into the wrong century,
the wrong continent,
amidst all the wrong faces,
and she has no meaning while she’s lost
in a forest of crumbling flesh.
Her name holds no significance
in the mouths of the voiceless.
She’ll stand on her knees,
and she’ll pray till she has faith,
and she’ll sit on her fists
till they crack.
She’ll wait
until he rescues her.
She’ll wait
while her marrow turns to ash
within her bones.
She’ll wait
just exactly
where she is.
**"Well when one is lost I suppose it’s good advice to stay where you are until someone
finds you" -- Alice in Wonderland's "Very Good Advice"
The first duo
The candidate we can trust
Manifesto reads
War against corruption
The second duo
The best man for the jobs
Manifesto reads
The rule of law prevails
The apex of the duo
The life shortened
The good interred
With his bones
Emerged from the interred
Bones of the second goods
The third duo
Manifesto wears
Re branding Nigeria and Nigerians
Witnessing is dislocation
Witnessing is development
Of predators
Maimings and murders
Here and there
The predators
Is a celebrated gladiators
The manifesto
Is like glint
Let there be
Food on the table,
Sleepiest sleepyhead,
Foundation of a state
Engaged youths
Re brand served and serving Nigerians
Planet of unsettling decline
losing our swagger of firm footing
staggered by earth's vast pool of needy preservation.
To seek global rule to fix plastic shard oceans pushed from
a safety zone sustainable
to bring nature's biodiversity to healthy
to stop a virus that drains color from life
to free the elderly from weighty tears
to heal an urban drug lurch of self abasement
to widen narrow alleys of thought
to lift the knife edge danger of human dislocation
to starve a diet of misdirected war
to dislodge regimes of hefty monsters who rob
their people's freedom.
If I ruled our sphere we'd stop the "what if's" and just do
like re-inhabiting our streets to purge litter,
or to strive for self correction
nourished by new discovery
and love what we should be closer to.
Poem composed: August 19/2020
(Revised January 2, 2021)
Heroes come from all corners of the world
I hadn't thought about that until the 1998 Goodwill Games
Where she got injured and could be paralyzed
Meet my 17 year old little heroine Sang Lan!!
The fact that she's alive is a pretty amazing feat
Because when she overpowered on a front handspring vault
She struck the mat head-first and has a fracture-dislocation injury
Which is where she injured two vertebrae at the base of her neck.
Sang is an amazing young Chinese lady
Who has high spirits despite whatever her condition
She's had plenty of support from people around the world
And she has shown tremendous strength through this ordeal.
China's 1997 national vault champion is hoping
That an experimental nerve-building drug helps her paralysis
And she can do more for herself than the doctors ever thought possible
Because before her surgery she couldn't even sit up and hold her head up.
It looks like her gymnastics career could be over
Unless some kind of miracle takes place
Because she still had no feeling in her hands, wrists, and legs
However she did get some positive news after her surgery.
SHADY LADIES
Hostas
Gael Turnbull(1928-2004,a Scottish doctor-poet created the imagist Spaces form in his collection Briefly (1967) a two line poem with a larger than usual space
Turnbull called poems using his device ‘Spaces’, and noted of these ‘The visual “space” is,a pause or hesitation, even a temporary dislocation of attention’ .
Could you love
an old white redneck
with HIV,
inhaling too much medicine?
Could you love him
if he were able to listen
without judging,
but commiserating,
curious about nuances,
finding dark humor
transcending rumors
of ego’s timorous tumors
and climatic anthro-terrifying tremblers?
Could you love a sad house-bound poet,
with too many kids of vulnerable colors,
multiculturally married but neurodiversely separated,
haunted by recurring adoption-denied nightmares?
Abandonment
allows suffocation,
nutritional neglect,
dislocation
drowning embryonic surf,
tidal pools of loneliness
propelling salty
dark
dissonant compassions,
emotive compost
organically fueling preoccupations
toward resurfacing light.
Could you love him
if he could know what you feel,
and guess why
and wonder how,
and hope when,
and care where
we might want to hear
and feel and dance and breathe
this sacred co-opera again?
Could you love erotic simplicity
if delivered with truer exotic festivity?
Could you love integrity,
us becoming right synergy
here
and now?
Could we sacred love
exchanging secularized anger management
for musing compassion's
proactive
interactive
interdependent
inter-reconnecting
inter-re-ligious EarthTribe opportunities?
Could you love
these neurodiverse
neuro-sexsensory ones
you are already miraculously singing
and dancing within
without?
Rushing here, there and everywhere,
A mind that leaps canyons and space
Ricocheting, bouncing on rock walls,
Dislocation with turbulent pace.
Scuffing up dust and then zinging,
Off at wild tangents or angles,
Darting, exploding like fireworks,
Neurological barbed wire tangles.
And sometimes, sometimes crave tearing
At the flesh beneath tingling skin,
To rip this man-suit off the mainframe
And extinguish the chaos within.